


A Night of Light and Dark

by Lyetta



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, or my attempt at fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:46:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23131900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyetta/pseuds/Lyetta
Summary: COMPLETEWhen Rhys decides to get a drunk Tamlin home late at night, he doesn't expect help to come from a young woman he's never met.---֎---It's been a night of extremes. Rhys has felt happier than he's been in months, angrier than he's been in years and now feels a sadness that he expects to last for weeks. Maybe longer. Maybe forever.
Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Comments: 23
Kudos: 108





	1. Part One

**Part One**

As Feyre slides the key into her front door, the door to the apartment that she has _finally_ been able to afford to rent, she watches the slow progress of two men heading her way. 

One, with short dark hair and dark skin, is taking a break while the other, with fair skin and long blond hair, leans against the wall. The blond man looks to be more than a little drunk, but still conscious. 

After a couple of deep breaths, the dark haired man takes his friend's weight again and closes the distance to where Feyre is procrastinating.

She has a shopping bag full of leftover food, which she pretends to look through. Just why she might be checking the contents of her bag here, on the pavement, and not inside, she hasn't considered. 

The man who personifies darkness and mystery stops again. Feyre is lost as soon as she sees his eyes. Maybe she was lost already. 

“Is your friend OK?”

The pair of violet eyes reminds Feyre of images she's seen of galaxies half a universe away. She remembers the swirls of purple gas, studded with stars. Feyre had argued that nothing _that_ beautiful could exist here on Earth, yet this man has newly forming galaxies in his eyes. He is the most beautiful man she has ever met.

“He's had a bit too much to drink, he just needs to sleep it off.” The man gives her a tight smile; he can't stop long without it costing him energy.

She delays him again anyway. 

“Do you have far to go?” Feyre wonders why she felt she _had_ to ask? Maybe just to keep those eyes in her life a little longer. 

When the owner of the violet eyes names a very nice neighbourhood at the other end of the city, Feyre gasps. “You have a car, right? You're not going to carry him the whole way?” 

The man shakes his head, “No car.” 

“Look, I have a sofa. One of you would have to sleep on the floor but you could stay here tonight, if that helps?”

Feyre listens to herself talk in a state of shock; in fact, it is hard to know who is more surprised – her or the dark haired man, who eventually says, “You're serious?”

She nods, no backing down now.

Finally pushing open the long unlocked door, she reclaims the shopping bag from where it sits at her feet. Feyre lives on the first floor and the stairway is tight, she apologises for this and then leads the way. 

Standing at the foot of the stairs, Rhys cannot believe his luck. 

First he sees a beautiful woman across the street and curses Tamlin for being one step shy of passed out drunk. When the same woman crossed the road ahead of them and he'd seen her get out a key, Rhys had made a note to walk this way again sometime. And that, he thought, was the end of it. 

But then she'd started a conversation with him, which ended with an invitation to stay the night. Maybe he should have said no but something about her has Rhys hypnotised. 

The narrow staircase is a challenge but Tamlin is still awake enough to make it upstairs with Rhys supporting him from behind. 

Rhys grits his teeth as Tamlin makes the same sort of comments he's had to listen to all evening. 

The young woman, early twenties he'd guess, is wearing a pale blue skirt, the hem just brushes the tops of her calves. Tamlin mutters (quietly - thank goodness), "Good view from here, bet she'd look even better with her clothes off."

Rhys thinks that if Tamlin were to fall forward and bash his head on the steps, he probably wouldn't mind too much. 

They enter a sitting room where the woman is already removing cushions and a throw from the sofa so that Tamlin can lie down. Rhys thanks her and drags his companion towards his bed for the night. 

She smiles and murmurs something about the kitchen and giving the two men some space.

Rhys turns back to Tamlin and finds him watching the woman walk away with a look Rhys has sadly seen too many times before. "Maybe you should take the sofa and I should share her bed." 

Rhys takes a steadying breath before replying.

“She's too good for the likes of us.” _Way too good for you_ , Rhys add silently. Luckily Tamlin is fading fast and Rhys plans to leave as soon as Tam wakes in the morning, so their host should be safe from his lewd ways.

While Rhys makes Tamlin remove his shoes, Feyre has retreated to the kitchen and is busying herself by mostly opening and closing cupboards for no reason. 

The apartment seems much smaller now that two men occupy the sitting room.

The leftovers from the family meal are safe in the fridge and the washing up she had left draining this morning has been put away. 

It's been a long day, a bank holiday and one of the few days of the year where everything really seems to stop. Even the pubs, clubs and celebrations have now come to a close. Feyre isn’t sure what time it is but given that midnight had come and gone before she left her dad's place it must be _very_ late.

They would have let her stay over, use her old room, but Feyre worked hard for her independence. She likes coming back to her own space. 

“Thank you so much for letting us stay.” His voice surprises her, he moves with the stealth of a big cat. 

Feyre turns. The beautiful man of darkness watches her from the doorway. “You were never going to get him across the city on your own.”

He nods, “But even so, people rarely open their homes to help a stranger.” 

For the first time, Feyre wonders if she has done something incredibly stupid. These men could do _anything_ while they're here - damage her home, steal her possessions, hurt her… and there is nothing she could do now to stop them.

Rhys wants to hit his head against the wall. He can see the cloud of worry descending over her, filling her mind with horrible possibilities. “ _Shit_ , I'm sorry. That was a stupid thing to say. Here, take this,” he takes a leather wallet from his pocket and pushes it into her hands.

She resists immediately. “No. No, I don't want money.” Her face burns with embarrassment, he hates the way this deeper colour hides her freckles. 

“It's got my ID and cards inside, I trust you. I want you to know you can trust me too.” 

Feyre watches him closely, seeing the anxiety in his face - like he really didn't want to worry her. She flips the wallet open and reads the name, “Rhysand Blackwood,” out loud. 

He gives her pained look, “No one calls me Rhysand unless I've pissed them off. Just Rhys, please. And you are?” 

“Oh, I'm Feyre, sorry - I should have said that before.” 

“You don't need to apologise for anything, _I'm_ sorry for intruding.” 

“It's fine, really,” she says quietly, her concerns not completely forgotten. “So, who's your friend?”

“Tamlin Rosehall. And… He's not really my friend.” Rhys isn't sure why he feels the need to admit this. 

“You're not friends?” With raised eyebrows, Feyre waits for more, there must _be_ more. 

“We were friends once, at school, a long time ago now. We've grown apart I guess, grown into different people. Tonight was a reunion, of sorts, and the first time I've spoken to Tamlin in five years.”

“I still don't get how you ended up responsible for getting him home, what about his other friends?”

Rhys runs a hand through his hair, and she watches the movement of that inky blackness between his fingers. She likes the way it falls over his forehead. 

“You don't need to answer,” she says, “I'm being nosey. Wine?”

Feyre reaches for a bottle of wine as she offers. Though she keeps a few bottles ready, she rarely drinks. Since she is mostly home alone, she finds it difficult to justify opening a bottle. But she is happy for _Rhysand Blackwood_ to be her justification tonight.

Feyre like the way his name sounds in her head.

Rhys scans her face for signs that she is simply trying to be polite. He doesn't find any so he nods. "You have every right to be nosey, darling."

“Darling?” She repeats, shocked that he's said it and shocked to find that she kind of likes it. She's never had a pet name before. 

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-”

“No, its fine,” she smiles, pouring deep red liquid into two delicate glasses - her best. “But if we're having nicknames, what should I call you?"

Feyre hands Rhys a glass - Rhys intentionally brushes his fingers over hers and enjoys the way her breath catches. 

“Well, I've brought myself and my obnoxious friend into your life, taken over half your apartment and now I'm depleting your alcohol supply…” 

“So how about Prick?” It can't be the wine making her so bold, she's barely had a sip, so it must be the man she stands in the kitchen with. Feyre likes his smile, it's wide and encourages her own smile to grow.

“I think I like that. And in answer to your question, Tam seems to have pissed off all our friends over the years. Fundamentally he's not a bad person but he can be possessive over people and obsessive over money.” Rhys frowns, thinking back over every disagreement, every irritation, “He's stubborn too and selfish.”

“Ok, ok, that might be a good place to stop! You're not really making me like him, you know.” She's amused but Rhys remembers what Tamlin whispered as they climbed the stairs. He doesn't _want_ her to like him. 

“I don't think you should like him.” 

Feyre drinks from her glass, contemplating him. He feels uneasy under the gaze; he wishes she'd say something or that he could somehow know her thoughts. 

“Can we sit at the table in there or would we wake your not-friend?”

“Let's go sit down, Tamlin won't wake now until morning.”

It's _already_ morning, technically, but they both know what Rhys means. 

“I'm still a little confused,” she admits finally, once they are settled at the tiny table, knees almost touching, “About why you're with him.”

“I guess I couldn't leave him outside the venue tonight, knowing that he wouldn't be able to get himself home. I can dislike him without wishing him harm.”

“Then you're a better person than me,” the self-deprecating comment slips out without Feyre thinking twice. She’s become too used to the mental and verbal self-bashing. 

Rhys is confused at the hate he detects beneath her words. He wishes he knew her well enough to correct her, but they've only just met. He does the best he can, “You _are_ helping two handsome strangers, that's pretty selfless you know.”

“What if I'm only helping them _because_ they're handsome?”

“Well, I'd be OK with that.” Rhys grins and she looks away, her sleek brown hair hiding all but the end of her upturned nose from his view. 

She’s basically just admitted to liking the way he looks. He knows he's objectively good looking but her good opinion seems to matter a lot right now. 

Feyre finishes her glass of wine and leans back in the chair. These chairs are practical but not comfortable, she thinks. She's never had guests before, not even her family, so it hasn't been a problem. 

She lets her focus fall on Tamlin, now sound asleep on the sofa. He is more conventionally handsome than Rhys and his long blond hair makes his face interesting. Even in sleep, she can see he is strong and his clothing, loosened by Rhys she suspects, screams money. 

Feyre decides he is vain then realises that she may be somewhat biased because of Rhys' recent character assassination. She doesn't much care, glad only that it is Rhys whose company she has tonight. 

Rhys has almost forgotten his drink, watching Feyre stare at his sleeping not-friend. He tracks the way her eyes travel along the length of his body but linger on his face. Maybe Tamlin is her type. Maybe he was the reason she offered them a room.

Maybe she would have taken up Tamlin's offer and let him share her bed. 

The thought makes him feel sick and he puts his glass down on the table with a touch too much force. The wine rises to the rim of the glass but doesn’t spill. 

Feyre looks over at the sound and finds Rhys looking tired. She should offer to go, give him the privacy to sleep if he wants to… She _should_. 

“Will you be OK on the floor? I have extra blankets you could put down?” 

“I'll be fine. I'm used to camping in the mountains, so a night on your floor is almost luxury.” He smiles again, the tiredness lifting. Maybe she imagined it. 

Rhys wants to keep the conversation going; he wonders if the comment about sleeping on the floor was a hint that she's feeling tired. 

Selfishly, he knows tomorrow morning he and Tam will leave early and Rhys will likely never see Feyre again. He decides to stay up with her for as long as she’ll let him. 

\---֎---

A second bottle of wine, and almost 2 hours later, Feyre is leaning heavily on his shoulder, warming Rhys in ways he's never felt before. 

At some point they turned the chairs to sit side-by-side. Rhys thinks he engineered this with a conversation about the painting on the wall. Feyre remembers asking him to move his chair because “the light is better” from there, she didn’t need to move her own chair but did so all the same.

Her hand grips his and Rhys runs his thumb gently over her knuckles. Their legs have somehow become tangled under the table. Feeling suddenly protective of this smaller being beside him, Rhys says, “Feyre, maybe it's time for you to go to bed.” 

“Mmpht,” the non-intelligent mumble is all that comes from Feyre in response. 

“Sorry? I didn’t catch that.” Rhys has to press his lips tightly together to keep in the laugh. 

Feyre turns her head into his arm and inhales his scent. It leaves her with a dopey smile on her lips. “Not tired,” she says in the least convincing way possible. 

“Well, maybe _I_ am,” Rhys whispers against her ear, an excuse to move closer. 

“Hmm,” Feyre considers his words with a frown that starts between her eyebrows and disappears into her hair. “Ok, I'll let you sleep.” 

Rhys stands and helps her up too, he wonders if he should take Feyre to her bedroom or if that would be overstepping. 

Feyre stands on tiptoes as she says, “Night,” and tries to kiss his cheek. She misses and her lips land on the corner of his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a chapter two but it isn't written yet. Should I keep this as T or not? 
> 
> Hope you've enjoyed this so far, it's a bit different from my usual angsty stuff - I'm practising so that Link can have some fluff!


	2. Part Two

**Part Two**

Feyre suddenly feels much more alert and mortified by her clumsiness. 

She backs away too fast, losing her balance, but Rhys catches her. He doesn't think twice about pulling Feyre into his chest, to stop her falling; but, now he is holding her, he doesn't seem able to let her go. 

Neither of them are smiling anymore. The silence in the room is broken only by Tamlin snoring on the sofa. 

Rhys can still feel her lips on his. He's wondering what he needs to say or do for Feyre to kiss him again. 

Feyre's eyes are dark but Rhys tells himself that this is simply because they agreed to turn most of the lights off an hour ago - to help Tamlin sleep.

“I'm sorry,” she whispers. 

“I'm not,” he whispers back. 

He thinks the mix of blues and greys in her eyes is his new favourite colour, he could gaze at those eyes for hours. He hopes to tell her that one day, but not now. Now, he's afraid to speak at all, in case he spooks her. 

Feyre can feel his hands at her waist through her thin, white cotton top. It has blue flowers stitched into it that match the colour of her skirt but she thinks it would look better on the floor. 

Feyre doesn't take risks with relationships but right now she believes the greater risk is doing nothing and letting this man leave in the morning. 

“Take my top off?” she asks. He sucks in a breath, holds it and watches her. 

“Not here,” he says at last. He won't say Tamlin's name, not wanting to acknowledge who they currently share the room with. 

Feyre nods. She takes his hand carefully, her grip light on his fingers, and leads him to her bedroom. 

They leave the lights off. The darkness feels comforting. 

After closing the door quietly behind them, Rhys slowly lowers his mouth to the corner of hers, mimicking her kiss. When she sighs, Rhys leaves a string of barely-there kisses from one side of her mouth to the other. 

She's smiling again when he pulls back. They both remember her request at the same time and together they pull her top over her head. The dusty blue bra below also has a flower design but Rhys is more interested in the swell of her breasts above the lace. 

He kisses her jaw and her neck and her collarbone, loving the way her breathing changes - becoming faster, shallower, with every contact. 

When his tongue traces the line of skin above the boundary of her bra, Feyre moans. She reaches for the strap but he gets there first, freeing her breasts.

They're nothing special, she thinks, and wonders if she should apologise. 

Rhys finds her nipple with his teeth and flicks his tongue over it. A warm hand covers her other breast, kneading softly. Feyre forgets everything, including who and where she is. She would fall if Rhys wasn't holding her up. 

Rhys smiles at how responsive she is and decides the bed would be a good idea now. He guides her backwards and then follows her down until they are lying together above the covers. 

As he shifts above her, returning to her lips for a deeper kiss, Rhys wonders where the line is. They've been drinking and they only met a few hours ago... He's happy to wait, especially if that keeps Feyre in his life past sunrise. 

While they kiss, Feyre runs a hand through his hair - just as she's wanted to do all evening. She opens her mouth to allow his tongue to play with hers and their instincts take over. The temperature of the room seems to rise. 

Rhys is not in full control of his hands when they dip below her skirt. But still, he enjoys the way she writhes as he drags his fingers up her thighs. 

Something snaps inside her head and Feyre reaches for his top, needing to equal out the amount of skin on show. 

Rhys happily helps to pull his shirt off, exposing the network of black ink over his chest. While Feyre is distracted, following the whorls of his tattoo with one finger, Rhys gathers the fabric of her skirt and tucks it into the waistband.

Her underwear is a match for the now discarded bra. When he brushes a finger over this final barrier, Feyre shudders. Her eyes slide closed so that every shred of attention can be focused on that finger over her half-forgotten bundle of nerves. It’s been awhile since she’s even bothered to touch herself like this.

Rhys kisses the pulse point on her neck, using his tongue in time with the stroke of his finger. He's waiting for _her_ , Feyre realises. 

She opens her eyes and gasps, “ _Please_.” It's enough. He moves the lace underwear aside and drags his finger through the wetness waiting for him. 

They both groan. Eyes lock. He doesn't need to look down, much preferring to watch her reactions flicker across her face.

His thumb begins to rub circles over her swollen clit and she arches her spine, tipping her head back. Rhys knows this will need to stop soon but can't resist biting down gently on her exposed throat. Feyre bucks her hips and comes with a longer moan and a fresh rush of wetness over his fingers. 

When her breathing becomes less laboured and the spasms in her legs less frequent, Rhys pulls away. Feyre watches him suck each finger clean, it's enough to drag another moan from her mouth.

He clearly plans to leave her now, she wishes he wouldn't but doesn't have the words to keep him close. Instead, she cups the hardness inside his trousers and is pleased to hear a new groan from him. 

Rhys puts a hand over hers, keeping her touch where he needs it. He _is_ enjoying the friction as she rubs him through his clothing… but it needs to st- _Oh._

His breathing becomes heavy and his eyes roll slightly.

_It needs to stop. Now._

“Feyre, I'm not going to bed you with that idiot sleeping on the sofa next door.” She starts to complain but he kisses her into silence. “Another time,” he promises with his lips brushing her forehead. He collects his shirt from the floor and pauses at the door, “Goodnight darling.”

“Night,” she whispers back, at once disappointed and relieved. Some part of her has begun to wonder how he will feel about her in the morning. Better to wait until the alcohol has gone before going any further. 

Still, she misses the feel of his hands on her skin.

Rhys sets up his bed on the floor by the window, not wanting to be too close to the sofa in case Tamlin wakes first and doesn't see his not-friend sleeping on the floor. 

He lies on his back and remembers every moment with Feyre. It doesn't help his erection to fade but it helps his soul. 

He hopes she won't feel differently after some sleep. He hopes he will dream of her and that they will both wake up feeling brave enough to swap numbers.

\---֎---

Feyre might have changed into a night dress but her mind is too busy to sleep. 

It's over an hour since the sitting room went silent, save for the quiet sounds of two men sleeping.

Outside, the dawn chorus is well underway. She should just get up, she thinks. Then, footsteps capture her attention. Maybe Rhys couldn't sleep either. Maybe… The bedroom door opens and Feyre smiles, "Back so soon?" she teases. 

She realises her mistake an instant later.

“I knew you were up for it,” replies Tamlin, “I hope you sleep in the nude.” 

Feyre's eyes widen as Tamlin crosses the room, she forgets to breathe. 

Tamlin hadn't been looking for Feyre, if he is totally honest. He'd woken up hungry and disorientated. This certainly wasn't his home and he somehow didn't think Rhys would be sleeping on the floor if they'd gone back to his place. Then he’d remembered the narrow stairs and the sofa… and gone looking for the kitchen.

But if the silly bitch wanted a quicky with a stranger, Tamlin wasn't going to say no. As he slides under the covers, he notices that she is already trembling, eager. 

“Take the nighty off,” he commands. 

It's the last thing he says before Rhys drags him roughly out of bed and out of the room. Rhys is ready for a fight, ready to kick seven shades of shit out of this arsehole. But more importantly, he needs to get Tamlin far away from Feyre. 

He should never have accepted Feyre's offer. He shouldn't have let himself fall asleep, even for an hour. 

Rhys drops Tamlin's shoes into his lap and gives the man exactly one minute to be ready to leave. 

Only when he half drags Tam to the top of the stairs does Feyre appear in the bedroom doorway. Their eyes hold for a moment and then Rhys says, "I'm so sorry," in lieu of goodbye. 

The sky blushes pink in expectation of the sun's rising, as Rhys shoves Tamlin out onto the street. His argument, that if you can _'walk around the flat causing trouble then you're ready to walk home'_ , hadn't been well received.

But Tamlin can grumble all he likes, Rhys doesn't care. The only reason he hasn't punched his very-not-friend already is because then it might have taken _longer_ to get Tamlin away from Feyre. 

It's been a night of extremes. Rhys has felt happier than he's been in months, angrier than he's been in years and now feels a sadness that he expects to last for weeks. Maybe longer. Maybe forever. 

“Rhys!” Feyre, with bare feet lost inside huge walking boots, hurries down the pavement after them.

For a painfully brief moment, Rhys hopes that she will ask him to come back later or give him her number. Instead she says, “You forgot this,” and hands him back the wallet he gave her - to prove she could trust him. 

Well, Tamlin proved just how little his trust was worth. 

He nods in thanks and looks at her face one last time, memorising everything about her. Her hair is loose around her face. He can still see her nighty, falling to mid-thigh, but she’s thrown a jumper on over the top. She’s the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen.

And then he is walking after Tamlin, faster than necessary - in case he breaks and begs her for a second chance. 

Feyre watches them go, the sun creeping up between the houses on her left. The street is striped with patches of light and dark - Feyre finds that she prefers the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, is this still fluff? I'm guessing not.


	3. Part Three

**Part Three**

Rhys walks home from work most days.

Today, he is enjoying the feel of the breeze on his face and watching the starlings making their evening murmuration across the sky. He almost smiles. 

Almost. Because under every thought and every action is a bone-deep sense of regret.

Four days have passed since the bank holiday, enough for most people to have forgotten the long weekend and any parties or gatherings they may have attended. Life has returned to normal. 

Rhys knew he wouldn't forget so fast and thinks that ‘normal’ may have to be redefined.

He has been trying a different coping strategy each day but his mind has been invaded and is now occupied by the memories of another.

On Monday he tried to move on through anger. He came up with some truly inventive and abusive names for his school friend – building on the names he made use of before leaving Tamlin outside his home and walking away the day before. 

Tamlin would, from now on, be written out of Rhys’ life. It was about time and really he was no great loss, Rhys had managed the last five years without seeing the man, after all. 

But Rhys had known what Tamlin was like, with and without alcohol, before the bank holiday.

Some (maybe most?) of the blame for what had happened during that night, should lie at Rhysand's door. 

That hurts more than a poor choice of friend; he had knowingly put someone else at risk without taking precautions.

And he hadn't asked Feyre if she was OK after what Tamlin had done either and had decided not to even put a note through the letter box the next day. Too much of a coward to face his mistakes.

Rhys told himself that he doesn't want to be a reminder of a bad experience... but by Tuesday, Rhys had realised the truth: he was ashamed. 

He had planned to keep an eye on Tamlin all night but he had been distracted – by wanting Feyre.

Waking with a lurch and instinctive understanding that something was wrong, Rhys remembers moving towards her room before looking towards the sofa to confirm his suspicions. He'll never forget her face as he dragged Tamlin away. 

It could have been so much worse but that didn’t mean he expected forgiveness from Feyre. 

His low mood attracted the attention of his cousin, who now knows everything - Mor has a way of getting Rhys to spill his guts, she always has done. He didn’t rise to her teasing but has tried harder to hide his feelings from others.

Wednesday was a day of distraction. Rhys moved like a whirlwind from place to place and task to task. He didn't stop working, even to eat, and went straight on to the gym when there was not enough left at the office to distract him. 

He felt pleasantly tired when he changed for bed but fell asleep with an image of freckles scattered across cheeks and over the bridge of an upturned nose. 

So today, Thursday, has been a day of clichés and reality checks. Just _‘take one day at a time’_ he'd told himself that morning, and remember that _‘you’re not looking for a relationship right now’_.

It didn’t work out with Feyre but _‘things happen for a reason’_ and there are _‘plenty more fish in the sea’._

When a less supportive voice added, _she deserves better than you anyway,_ Rhys confided in his cousin once again.

She all but laughed while telling him that he was being ridiculous. Her advice: one night didn’t constitute a relationship so he should quit with the break up act.

Rhys sighs as he realises that during his walk home, he hasn’t been able to think about one thing that didn’t link back to Feyre, except maybe the birds overhead.

What would he be like if they actually had broken up?

He’d be wrecked... Maybe it really is _'for the best'_ that it ended before it could start. 

\---֎---

Feyre's artwork may not bring in any money but her knowledge and interest in art did land her the job at the gallery. She loves taking people round and answering their questions. Plus, she is surrounded by art all the time. 

But, whatever her family might say, Feyre still hopes that her own art might become more than a hobby someday.

It's been a busy week with a new exhibition starting. It's already open to important gallery members but the official public launch is tomorrow night. 

Feyre doesn't actually need to be there. Her job, working front of house and running tours, starts the day after.

The events manager likes to make herself the focus of these events and that always irritates Feyre, especially when the _artist_ is attending. But despite Iantha, Feyre enjoys the atmosphere of a launch party, she hasn’t missed one yet.

Feyre fingers the tickets on the table beside her. Yet again she wonders what made her ask for _two_.

 _Rhysand Blackwood_ might not even like art. Feyre clicks her tongue at her own thoughts. 

_Rhysand Blackwood_ might not even like you, she thinks. 

Feyre picks up the now empty dinner plate and drains her glass of water - she plans to be teetotal for a while. 

In the kitchen, Feyre sets her phone to play ‘Arrival of The Birds’ while she washes up. It's relaxing. The launch party is quickly forgotten and the sketch pad comes out until it is time for bed.

Feyre might not admit to what all her sketches this week have in common. But _Rhysand Blackwood_ would probably see the connection. 

\---֎---

“So, will you still be needing that second ticket Feyre?” Iantha ask

Without looking up Feyre says, “Yes I'm bringing someone.” She hopes Iantha will drop it but knows that is unlikely.

“ _Really_? Who?” 

Feyre would love to respond with _none of your business_ but Iantha is a manager here and Feyre really loves her job. 

Maybe it is irritation at the assumption that Feyre has no one to bring or the daydream she has enjoyed during several quiet moments today, but Feyre answers smoothly, "A date." 

It gets the reactions she'd hoped for - to a point. 

Iantha is clearly surprised and for a moment says nothing at all. She is a woman who prides herself on knowing _everything_ , even about other people's private lives. “You’ve never mentioned you were seeing someone. Do they have a name?”

The lie rolls right off her tongue. “Rhys.” She's in too deep now anyway, may as well keep on digging that hole. “It's still early days but… I like him.”

“Does he know the dress code?” Another veiled insult.

“Yes, Iantha, he knows what to wear.”

“Well, I look forward to meeting him later then.”

Once she has the room to herself, Feyre flops into a chair and wonders what to do. The options range from feigning illness (her, Rhys, both) to actually inviting the man she's spent most of the week thinking about. 

_Impossible_ , she thinks. But… is it?

Rhys gave Feyre his wallet the night he and the not-friend stayed over and she had done more than read his name off his driver’s licence. 

If the road hadn't been one she recognised then she might not have remembered. And if the house number hadn't been 22, her age, she might have questioned her memory. 

But the fact was: Feyre knew _exactly_ where to find Rhys. She had done all week. 

_And_ some small part of her had known that, eventually, she would knock on his door. So why not tonight?

\---֎---

Speed walking straight from work when her shift ends gets Feyre to Rhys' front door by 5:20. It's probably a walking world record, she is out of breath. 

Feyre is not the sort of person to cold call strangers and though Rhys is not technically a stranger, she still hesitates outside for a moment. 

She remembers the unique swirl of purple and stars in his eyes, the way his hair had felt between her fingers and the sound of his laugh. It makes her brave.

She rings the bell. 

In fact, she rings the bell roughly twenty times over the next forty five minutes while trying not to look too shifty, pacing the garden path and avoiding eye contact whenever someone walks by. 

She really needs to leave, should have left already - to give herself time to get home, change and get back to the gallery for the party. 

Feyre rocks on the balls of her feet, considering her options – for the second time today.

She is surprised to find that Iantha's teasing is not what depresses her. She really _had_ wanted Rhys to be in. The party is just an excuse; she wants to see him again. 

Having already decided against writing him a note, Feyre accepts that she will have to try again some other time. 

She turns but finds the pathway blocked by a beautiful woman. Feyre's heart contracts painfully. _What if it was all a lie?_ Maybe this is the girlfriend (or wife) he forgot to mention at the weekend. Maybe she’d been played. 

“Sorry, I've got the wrong house,” Feyre mumbles and tries to edge past the woman to reach the pavement.

But the woman flicks her long golden hair over one shoulder and remains firmly in the way. “Who are you waiting for?”

“Honestly, I'm just in the wrong place, I don't want to waste your time-” Feyre isn't normally one to ramble or wave her hands excessively. She's doing both now and hasn't even noticed. 

“Were you waiting for Rhys?” Feyre can't hide her wince and the woman grins. “He'll be back in an hour.” 

“Ah, well, I guess I'll try again some other time,” she says, fully believing that she will do no such thing. Embarrassment like this doesn’t need to be repeated, she thinks. 

“Shall I give my cousin a message for you?”

Feyre looks up, her lips parting in surprise. “Cousin?”

“Yeah.” The woman raises her eyebrows in amusement. “As in my father's brother is Rhysand's dad.” She might be making fun but Feyre is still processing this new information: the gorgeous woman is _not_ Rhys' wife. 

The cousin takes pity and stops teasing. “I'm Morrigan, by the way.” When Feyre continues to say nothing she prompts with, “So, _did_ you have a message for Rhys?”

“Oh. Well I _was_ going to invite him to a party but it's tonight so probably too short notice anyway.” Feyre hands over the ticket and Morrigan's lips stretch into a smile. 

“Actually, I think he's free. Who shall I say the invite is from?”

Feyre's face burns. She wonders how many anonymous women turn up on his doorstep each week. Will he even remember her? “It's from… Um, well, I'm…”

Rhys' cousin's face softens at her embarrassment. “Shall I say it's from Feyre?” she asks. 

Everything stops. No talking, no traffic, even the birds hold their beaks. 

If this woman knows her name, then Rhys must have talked about Feyre. And if he's talked about her, enough for Morrigan to remember, then that night _must_ have meant something to him too. 

Feyre nods, still blushing but feeling calmer, more confident, "Yes, thank you. Say it's from Feyre and say I'll meet him there. _If_ he wants to come, that is.”

“He'll be there,” Morrigan promises on her cousin's behalf. She grins to herself and watches Feyre hurry away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit angsty, I don't seem to know how to turn it off.  
> Only one more chapter to come.


	4. Part Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: more mature content in this chapter.

**Part Four**

Rhys hangs up his coat while kicking off his still-laced shoes - a bad habit, especially from the point of view of his shoes, but it is Friday after all. 

His cousin is waiting for him. Odd - well, not odd that she would arrive first or that she would let herself in, both of those things are standard Friday behaviours for Mor. 

But what is odd, thinks Rhys, is the way she's standing with her arms folded, waiting for him. She clearly wants him to comment so Rhys turns away slightly, removes the smile that plays across his lips, and then acts as though she always meets him by the door. 

"Hello Mor, good day?" 

She scowls, "You're late and now you're wasting time. Get upstairs and change." 

"Change? Why?” She has his full attention now, “Where are we going?" 

Her lips twitch, the first tell he has seen - Mor is up to no good. And, whatever her game is, she's enjoying it. 

" _I'm_ not going anywhere. You have a date."

Rhys feels his heart sink. He's told Mor about last weekend and his struggle to move on but he didn't expect her to set him up with someone. 

The last thing he needs right now is a blind date. 

"No Mor, I'm having pizza with you and Cass and Az. I do _not_ want to go out anywhere with anyone. Whoever you've set me up with, you need to ring them right now and call it off."

“Oh,” Mor says, still looking far too happy, "You're sure?" 

"Yes, I'm sure. No dates." He's irritated that Mor would do this. Irritated that his plan for a lazy evening with family has been put at risk. 

“OK. It's a shame you won't go…” Mor says, her eyes sparkle with amusement. She wonders how long she can string this out for given that Rhys is already cross with her. Plus, he really will need to hurry... “A real shame. Feyre _will_ be disappointed.”

Rhys gapes at his cousin. The only word in his head is _Feyre_ , which he hears over and over until finally he finds another word, which he says to Mor, "Explain."

\---֎---

Feyre grinds her teeth as Iantha stops beside her yet again. The Events Manager has been making tours of all the rooms and greeting guests for the last half an hour. She is clearly busy but has somehow been able to 'check in' with Feyre three times. 

Feyre has run out of meaningless drivel to say, having run through 'this is such an amazing evening', 'the atmosphere is great', 'such a good attendance' and 'you must be really pleased'. 

She suspects that what Iantha is most pleased about is the lack of date by Feyre's side. This is almost confirmed when Iantha gleefully asks, “Could your date not make it then?”

The deep breath in does little to reduce her irritation but Feyre manages to keep her answer short and polite, “He's running late.”

“That's a shame.” 

Feyre thinks it's a shame that Iantha didn't fall on the stairs outside the gallery from her too-high heels, but she doesn't mention that. 

She looks again towards the wide, folding gallery doors, pulled open for the evening. The usual reception area has been cleared except for two long tables, each covered with delicate table cloths and holding a mixture of champagne and orange juice in flute glasses.

Feyre chose the juice but she's now wishing she'd picked the alcohol, to dampen her nerves and frustration. 

He will be here, she tells herself. Morrigan said he would. 

But could she really trust his cousin to pass on the message? Might she have forgotten or deliberately held the invite back? Feyre hates herself for thinking badly of a near-stranger but the alternative is that Rhys didn't want to come…

Iantha can smell other people's misery and she loves it nearly as much as being the centre of attention. “Oh Feyre,” she coos, “And you got all dressed up too.” 

Feyre nearly chokes on her drink, feeling her cheeks heat with anger, but there isn’t time to respond because an arm slides over her waist as a man stops beside her. He brushes a kiss to her temple as he says, “So sorry I'm late, I was held up at work.”

Rhys winks and Feyre forgets that they have company. Rhys doesn't forget, he turns to Iantha and introduces himself. Then, glancing at Feyre he adds, “This must be the friend you've told me so much about.”

Iantha looks as if a rug has been pulled out from beneath her feet and used to slap her across the face. The worry about what might have been said (to the date she had never really believed in) is so clear that Feyre has to hold back a laugh and Rhys almost feels bad. 

“I need to tour the room. Nice to meet you.” The smile is so obviously insincere, Feyre wonders why Iantha bothered to smile at all.

When Iantha has gone, Rhys looks down apologetically. “She looked like she was bothering you. I hope I haven't put my foot in it.”

“She _was_ bothering me, thank you, you have perfect timing.”

“I think I'm a little late actually. I didn't get the message until I got home.”

“I didn't exactly give you much notice.” Feyre smiles and really looks at him, now she can do so without feeling watched. He dresses up well, though she expected he would. “You're here.” She says happily. 

A redundant statement but Rhys smiles back. “Of course, you invited me.” Then his smile falters slightly, “I wasn't sure if you'd want to see me again.”

Before Feyre can reply there is a hand on her arm. A couple, who recognise her from the gallery, are asking about a piece in the exhibition. She sends Rhys a quick look - a silent question. He nods so Feyre follows the couple to a work in charcoal. 

Rhys is completely under her spell. He listens without really hearing her words. What he _does_ hear is her love for art and her knowledge of the techniques being used. He sees the way she captures the full attention of her audience; others passing the small group are caught by her too and stop to listen. 

When she finishes, her eyes spark and her skin seems to glow. She is somehow more alive than before. 

“I'm sorry,” Feyre says, linking her arm with his, which he thinks more than makes up for any imagined sin on her part. 

“You work here.” It's not really a question after what he's just witnessed. 

A nod. “I do gallery tours and sometimes talks to small groups on specific techniques or artists.” 

“So you teach art?”

“No,” she draws out the word. “If anything, I guess I teach art theory but most of the time I just tell people where the toilets are. I'd like to do more practical work but this gallery doesn't run classes.”

“And your own work?” Rhys asks, because it’s clear she is herself an artist. 

That glow is somewhat revived, “My own art is just a hobby.”

“For now,” Rhys adds for her and the smile she gives him could light up the room. 

“Show me your favourite piece?” He asks and Feyre captures his hand, taking him to not one but five or six different works around the gallery - claiming that they all had such different qualities that they couldn’t be compared or ranked against each other. 

Rhys doesn't know much about art but he can appreciate the skill and hard work that has gone into the work she shows him. And he appreciates his guide too, always close and still radiating happiness.

Somewhere along the way, both have deposited their glasses. Feyre holds Rhys' hand tightly, occasionally running her thumb down his or across his wrist. Rhys now stands half beside and half behind Feyre, as they look at the last of her favourite pieces. His free hand has slipped under the curtain of hair to rest at the nape of her neck. 

Neither of them notice how they touch the other, casually intimate - as though this is not only the second time they've met. 

The party is still in full swing when Feyre suggests that they step outside; Rhys would follow her anywhere. 

The gallery is set back from the river bank, separated from the water by a paved, pedestrianised area that will soon be a hub of activity, when the summer market arrives. 

Hand-in-hand, they walk towards the river in comfortable silence. They stop at the top of a set of wide stone steps, used to get small boats on and off the water. Rhys removes his jacket and spreads it out on the top step, to spare her dress. 

Feyre laughs but still sits down at the edge of their makeshift blanket. There is room for Rhys to sit too if he squeezes in close. She bites her lip, waiting to see if he will sit with her. 

He does. They sit so close that each can feel the heat of the other.

“Thank you for inviting me; I've had a lovely evening.” He wants to kiss her, maybe that's why he now talks as though their date were over. 

“It doesn't need to end here,” she says, shy now even though _she_ invited _him_ out for their first date. First of many, she hopes. 

Rhys turns her face towards him with one finger at her chin. “You're welcome to come back to mine but my family will be there. You've met Mor, my cousin. I'd like you to meet my brothers too but that doesn't need to be tonight.”

Feyre is lost in his eyes but she understands the choice he is giving her. Meeting Morrigan was enough for one day. “Back to mine?”

He leans in, “Whatever you're comfortable with,” he presses his lips to hers and for a moment they both enjoy the gentle give and take. 

When his hand moves along her jaw and his fingers brush the shell of her ear, Feyre grips his shirt and parts her lips. Rhys runs his tongue along her lip, teasing, and then sweeps inside to taste her fully. 

Feyre wants to climb onto his lap but in this dress she knows that isn't wise. She stands and pulls on his tie until Rhys is also on his feet.

\---֎---

The flat is just as he remembers. And his heart sinks as he _does_ remember, the good but, mostly, the bad. 

Seeing his face, Feyre takes his hand and leads him to the sofa. It now has a grey blanket thrown over it but the sofa still makes him think of Tamlin, and Tamlin makes him think of…. He stops, he has to say something, can’t just pretend that it will go away. 

“I’m sorry Feyre, I should have made sure nothing happened.”

Feyre hates the tone of his voice and the sadness in his beautiful eyes. She understands what he's talking about, had expected this conversation sooner or later.

She sighs, “I won't say I wasn't scared for a moment but you were there Rhys - you were there _before_ anything happened. And if you hadn't come in, I would have shouted to wake you or hit him or something. I'm not as defenceless as I look.”

“You shouldn't have needed to defend yourself, this is your home.” 

“You're not responsible for Tamlin's actions, just yours.”

 _“I_ put you at risk. _I_ brought him into your home.”

“I'm glad you did.” He stares back at her, at all three of her heads, in disbelief. Feyre blushes and tightens her grip on his fingers, needing the contact. “I'm glad I met you, I'm glad you stayed here - I don't think _this_ would be happening if you'd waked away.” 

Rhys lifts their joined hands to his mouth. “I'm very glad that _this_ is happening.” He kisses the back of her hand. “I don't want to rush anything,” Rhys whispers. “I want to get to know you Feyre and be part of your life. I want more evenings like tonight. Lots more.”

She gives him a tiny, hopeful smile back, eyes burning into his. “I want that too.” 

So the next hour passes as they talk and laugh and trade information about themselves. And, just as before, the longer they talk, the closer they get - until her head is resting on his chest and his arm is over her shoulders, his fingers tracing up and down her bare arm. 

“Rhys?”

“Hmmm?” She likes the way his chest vibrates as he speaks. 

“Take me to bed?” She doesn’t feel shy with him anymore and they have unfinished business. 

He tilts his head to search Feyre’s face for any hesitation or doubt. Then he helps her stand and with hands resting at her waist, Rhys follows Feyre to her bedroom.

In here, his memories again fight for his attention so he concentrates on her and on the tiny zip at the back of her dress. _This_ moment is the one that matters.

The sound on the zip is too loud for the quiet bedroom. Feyre is glad when it's over and the dress falls in a ring around her feet. 

She feels warm despite standing in just her underwear, warm from the heat of Rhys' gaze as he circles round to stand in front of her. His hands follow the contours of her body, barely touching but it’s enough to make Feyre arch into his touch. 

Rhys is well on his way to being hard just from looking at her body. He remembers the sounds she made, the taste of her on his fingers. 

He pulls her hips flush with his and watches the way her eyes darken as she feels him.

Feyre starts on his shirt buttons as Rhys removes his tie. The shirt is soon gone and Feyre lightly rakes his chest with her nails. 

He growls as her hands pluck at his trousers, she likes the sound and decides to find out what other sounds he will make, maybe without his trousers. 

Rhys has to lean his forehead against hers when she starts work on removing his remaining clothing. Her hand brushes his erection with every move.

When he is only wearing boxers she looks up to find his violet eyes watching her. She blushes again, “Can I?”

“You can do anything,” he replies hoarsely. 

So Feyre removes his boxers and takes his length in her hands. He groans and drops his head onto her shoulder. Feyre feels powerful as he strokes him, feeling a wetness at the tip, which she spreads with her thumb. 

“Feyre,” his broken whisper only spurs her on. She drops to her knees and touches him lightly with her tongue, testing his reaction. She’s not new to this but it has been a while. His heavy breathing is encouragement enough to keep going. 

When Feyre takes him into her mouth, Rhys groans loudly and grips her head. Panting, he lets his eyes close - only to open them again with a start as she swirls her tongue over all his sensitive places. 

It’s good… It's too good. He pulls away and drops to his knees with her, finding her face for a kiss.

He removes her bra and drops it on the floor beside them. His fingers brush her ribs and the undersides of her breasts until she gasps in frustration. 

“I want you.” He murmurs the words into her ear. “I want to taste you, then I want to feel you come while I'm deep inside you.” She moans in reply and drags him up and onto the bed.

Rhys leans back and smiles down at her flushed skin. His hands trail down to her hips, they take hold of her underwear and pull them off. 

Feyre stretches out on the bed and he sits between her legs. His fingers stroke her inner thighs to the sound of whimpers. When he bends his head and licks at the apex of her thighs, she is so loud he sits back and raises an eyebrow.

But Feyre is already too far gone to care how loud she’s being.

He brings her to the edge a couple of times, feels her shudder and hears her curse him, but in the end his own need makes him move back up her body. 

She pulls a condom from the bedside table and he puts it on. They lock eyes as he lines up with her entrance and then he's pushing in. Slowly. Slowly. All the way. 

It's his turn to curse - she's so tight. 

A short pause and then they’re moving together. It’s instinctive, a dance they both already seem to know. 

The grip of her hands on his shoulders, the sound of her breathing as she presses her mouth to his ear, the warmth of her body. Every moment is overwhelming. And when she comes, clenching around him, Rhys is only seconds behind. 

They fall asleep with damp skin and hearts still racing. 

Feyre doesn't wonder how he will feel about her in the morning, instead she wonders if he will let her paint him. She pictures the morning light from the bedroom window and the dark, crisp lines of his tattoos.

She hopes she can convince him; that painting would be almost as perfect as how she feels right now.

Feyre doesn’t need to worry, Rhys will say yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with this until the end, I hope it has been an enjoyable distraction.  
> Wherever you are in the world reading this, take care.  
> Etta x


End file.
